


Her Bear

by rideswraptors



Series: Let Me Steal You [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, tw: miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:32:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7684675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you want to stop trying?” Aegon continued, looking directly at his hands now, unable to meet her gaze. Dany winced.</p><p>“Do you?”</p><p>*Can be read as stand alone, but makes more sense within context of "Let Me Steal You"*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Bear

**Author's Note:**

> I finally decided how I wanted to handle Dany x Aegon. I like their relationship, mostly platonic, but affectionate.  
> If you don't like Dany x Jorah, feel free to skip this part. It shouldn't affect future stories too much.  
> This is set several months after the Winter mentioned in "Her Wolf."

It was hot in King’s Landing. The sun burned brightly in the cloudless sky, but the wind swept in from the sea, giving the citizens only an occasional gust of coolness.  But Dany, lounging on a chaise set out on her veranda, felt chilled to her bones. It happened every time. And every time, she would long for the blazing heat of a Dothraki summer, for the fires of Vaes Dothrak. To fight the chills, she drank the mead the maester recommended. _To numb the pain and warm the blood_ , he’d said. Ha. What a lark. Missandei sat to her left, reading quietly, the only noise emanating was the fountain below and the susurration of pages turning. Even that was beginning to grate on her nerves. She was so deep into her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the scuffle at her door, nor her husband’s approach.

“Leave us,” he barked at Missandei. At the sound of his voice, Dany cut her gaze to her dearest friend who was waiting for her dismissal. She was one of the few people not cowed by Aegon’s fiery temper. Certainly, she had seen worse. Dany rolled her eyes, but nodded, so Missandei dipped into a curtsy and left them quickly and quietly.

“I don’t care what temper you’re in, Aegon, you’ll not speak that way to Missandei.”

“She is a servant,” he bit back.

“And my dearest companion. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Dany refused to look at him, but she heard his weary sigh. She heard him drag a stool over to sit at her side, saw the dip of his silvery blond head over his knees where his elbows rested. Their marriage had not been as loving as her first, nor as intimate, but it certainly hadn’t been as frigid and standoffish as her second. Aegon didn’t like her closeness with Jorah. He didn’t like how she relied upon Tyrion for counsel. Dany mostly thought him a temperamental child. She mostly thought him a trial and a burden, though he solved a good many of her problems. Things had steadily improved since Jon wed Sansa in the North, since they had begun having children. Three now, in three years. Sansa, in true, was a blessing.

“How are you feeling?” her husband asked her with a surprising amount of softness. This was this sixth time, but this was the first time he’d ever sought her out.

“Cold.”

He snorted, “The maester said you’d say that.” Then she wondered why he bothered to ask. “He said you bled again.” Dany only hummed the affirmative, and then she adjusted her position on the chaise to get more comfortable.

“Do you—?” Aegon cut himself off. “Do you think you are barren in true? Or is it—?” Or is it _us_? Dany finished silently. All of the maesters said that when family married within family, the blood sometimes weakened. They said it could cause losses or strange deformities.

“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted softly, looking over at him for the first time. He so resembled the images of her lost brother that sometimes it made her heart ache. His lanky frame had filled out in their five years of marriage, all traces of the boy had vanished. Had transformed into a man worthy of his name and title. He attended to his duties, committed himself to training, to working with Viserion, to establishing relationships and connections with the lords and players of the Southron court. He trusted and respected her not because of what she had done before, but because of what he had seen her do. He confessed that he had been afraid she would kill Jon to prevent a threat to their claim, and that he had never been more grateful for anything in his life when she did not. But she had lost her siblings too. Most during their infancy, and was given the opportunity to know only one of them. Even a half-brother is precious when you have been left with nothing, and Dany was a far cry from heartless.

“Do you want to stop trying?” Aegon continued, looking directly at his hands now, unable to meet her gaze. Dany winced.

“Do _you_?”

Her snappish retort finally drew back his attention and he looked up at her with those pale violet eyes, the soft shade of lavender rather than her blazing amethysts. His hair was a shade darker though, much more gold than silver.

“Are speaking honestly or is this another of your games?”

She sighed, looking back to the ocean view before her, “Honesty. Please.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

She whipped her head around, “What?”

“Dany, I’m tired,” he confessed, splaying his hands beseechingly. “We’ve been fighting since long before we ever met. Jon has children to spare. Targaryens to spare. I am sick of watching you go through this turn after turn. And I will flay the next lord who expresses his _concerns_ or offers his daughter up as a second wife. Name little Ned your heir, and we shall start searching for his bride.” He was so insistent, his voice shaking with anger, but there did not seem to be a trace of deception in him. Did he truly not care if his successor was of his own blood? What man would settle for his brother’s son? His half-brother’s son, at that. No, there was something more, but she didn’t want to argue. She didn’t want to have this conversation any longer. So she agreed. They would have the treatise drawn up on the morrow, and Dany silently decided to discuss with Tyrion how to prevent any of his bastard from inheriting before Ned.

“How is Keira?” she asked conversationally, hoping to bring some levity to the situation. Aegon was discreet, of course, but completely honest with his wife. They both well understood the dynamic of their relationship; Aegon understood how exhausted she was of pretending with anyone, especially in private. They had affection and respect, and it was leagues more than she could have asked for in her third marriage. Though, she still contended she should not have had to marry at all. It was more than enough for her that he and Viserion had bonded so closely; she might have given him whatever he wanted, gold, a dragon, the Stormlands. But no, he wanted his birthright just as much as she did. Gaining it on her coattails, but gaining it nonetheless. At the very least, there had been no squabbling among the great houses.

But instead, Aegon’s expression darkened at the mention of his mistress, “Irritating,” he grumbled with a sigh. “Still convinced I should give her a babe if I won’t take her as a second wife.” Dany hesitated, biting her lip.

“Perhaps you should.”

“Take her as a second wife or give her a babe?” he asked sardonically. “She is presumptuous as it is, imagine what would happen if I actually wed her.” Dany grimaced. “Precisely. And giving her a babe would only create complications for us later.”

“They would be Targaryens. And if you had a girl, she might wed Ned. Or a boy to Lyanna,” she continued reasonably.  It wasn’t a _terrible_ plan, and it would certainly keep the Starks in play.

Aegon snorted, “And what would Sansa say to that? Wedding one of her beautiful babes to a courtesan’s bastard?”

“ _She_ is married to a bastard.” And so is her sister, her brain grumpily supplied. This Gendry Rivers had thwarted her plans to unite Sunspear with Winterfell, but it was just as well. Arya Stark wasn’t exactly what anyone would call tractable, and wedding her to the highly emotive Martells might have been disastrous. Damn the stubborn, wild thing.

“No,” Aegon argued, “If that is what we decide to do, then I will choose a more suitable mother, someone more agreeable, someone you would get on with, who wouldn’t put up a fuss.”

“And you’re certain that is what you would want?” she asked gently, probing. He looked away from her then, out over the sea. She wondered if he was thinking on his childhood across the Narrow Sea, when things had been much clearer for him.

“Not unless we feel we must. We can find a Southron bride for Ned, I think, since they missed out with the queen’s sister.” Dany scoffed, making him smile at her. “All right, not a true loss when you think on it, but all the same. That would be best.”

Eventually, he left her to her thoughts. Left her to sit, watching the tide and mentally reviewing the details of a trade agreement with the North which would secure them enough stone to repave the major roads in the South. Sansa was a shrewd negotiator, and Dany wasn’t entirely certain she was getting the better end of the deal. There was nothing for it, however, the roads needed reparations or trade in the South would suffer. Perhaps she could convince Jon to soften her up.

Missandei’s dulcet tones seeped in from her chambers, a soft cry of elation, her excited jabbering and a low, gruff reply. He knew then. It couldn’t be anyone but him. There was no one else Missandei showed such affection for. Well, not uninhibited affection anyway. She let her eyes flutter closed when she heard his heavy approach. He always made sure to alert her to his presence, always asked permission.

“You should be abed, Khaleesi,” Jorah the Andal murmured gruffly from the stool Aegon had vacated. Dany lolled her head to look at him as he laid her favorite fur across her slim form. She shifted again to sink into the warmth Sansa Stark had provided her with. _The fur of a shadowcat, your grace, found North of the Wall_. The animal had answered to a skinchanger Jon viciously hated for reasons they never told her. Ghost killed the beast himself. It did not surprise her that Jorah knew it to be her favorite. It also did not surprise her that he knew she was cold.

“Ser, the sun is high and the sky is cloudless. The day is hot, I don’t need a fur.” But he pulled a face.

“You are always cold after,” he answered shortly, returning to his task.

“Someone has been eavesdropping,” she japed lightly, with a wry twist of her lips. Jorah chuckled as he moved to tuck her legs and feet under the furs.

“Not quite.”

“Of course.” Because of course Maester Corrad had gone to Jorah first. In all likelihood, Aegon had happened upon them discussing it, and then Jorah had graciously allowed him the first rights to conversation with her. That is how it always was with him. He need not ask how she felt, for he had been the one to hold her and comfort her the five times before. She had wept in his strong arms, sobbed into his shoulder. He had promised her that everything would be fine, it would work out, that she was a phenomenal queen, that her goodness and her worth were not contingent upon producing children. He had lain in her bed with her, keeping her warm until the blood built back up in her body. He fed her and stayed with her. And that was precisely why the maesters went to Jorah first, why everyone went to Jorah first when it concerned the queen. Aegon was the king, but his title as husband was in name alone.

“What did his grace have to say?” he murmured gently, almost as if he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to know what had transpired between them.

“We are going to name Ned Stark my heir and begin a search for his future bride.” He blinked at her in surprise. “He is not as cruel as all that, my bear. This is just as hard on him as it is on me.”

“On that we disagree,” he grumbled, settling a cloak around her shoulders, so she needn’t be uncomfortable.

“Six babes in as many years? That is more than enough to wear on a man’s soul.”

“And you have lost eight. And he did not have to carry that life within him only to expel it.”

“Eight children,” she moaned, bringing a hand to her face to rub at her eyes. “I should have birthed an army by now.” But then she felt his hand on her wrist, big and gentle and cradling her much smaller one between his. He just held it, outstretched, never daring to do more. He was so sweet, so good, and she’d never deserved him. She pulled his hands into her lap and bent to kiss them.

“Was this my price?” she asked softly.

“What do you mean?” he said leaning forward.

“The price for that unsightly chair. An empty womb,” she answered miserably. Unconsciously, Dany tracked her fingers up his wrist and arm, tracing the greyscale scars. They were no longer infectious, but the scarring remained. It went nearly to his shoulder on one side. She had memorized the tracks, traced every line. Jorah never told her how he’d managed to obtain a cure, never told her what he did. Perhaps it was best she never know.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. You once told me that those dragons would be the only children you ever had. And if that’s true, then you made that sacrifice to save the man you loved.”

“To keep us safe,” she amended grumpily as she reached for her mead, “For all the good it did.”

“You are being too hard on yourself, Khaleesi. You were barely four and ten.” She shook her head at him, in complete disbelief that he still had so much faith in her abilities when she was in the midst of yet another failure.

“For how long will you make excuses for me?” she asked, leaning into the cradle of his arms. He met her halfway, pulling her up against him. He had one arm around her middle and the other around her shoulders. He nosed into her hair, lips pressed against her temple.

“Until my last breath,” he murmured.

“Don’t be kind to me right now, it makes everything worse,” she grumbled back. But evidently, she must not have meant it because she snuggled against his hard chest, pulled her fur up and around them. She was all but in his lap. With a deep chuckle, Jorah swept her up into his arms and re-settled onto the chaise with her situated in between his legs, still cradled in his arms and head tucked under his chin. Dany burrowed against him, not at all concerned with how it looked. The servants already gossiped about how close they were. Jorah had them convinced he was a fatherly figure to her. He certainly behaved as such.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her hair, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I am tired, Jorah, so tired of trying only to fail.”

“I know, Khaleesi.”

“Do you remember those first days on the Red Waste? The horses all dead, the women crying.”

“I’m not like to forget it. Why do you ask?”

“Sometimes I see that comet in my dreams, the one that lead us to Vaes Tolorro. It saved us, it brought us victories.” He stroked her hair as she spoke, soothing and reassuring. “If I am failing then why do I continue to dream it? Why do I see a child when no one else can?”

“You ask me this every time, and I still don’t have an answer for you.” She twisted her head to look up at him, felt the tears slip from her eyes because he watched her so lovingly, held her so gently. Because they had been through so much together, suffered and fought for every inch, for every victory. Because he was perhaps the only man alive who had ever seen her cry. In a smooth, easy press forward, Dany tilted her head back so he could bend to kiss her. Their coming together was a soft, sensual slide of lips. Light, airy, and dry. Warm comfort that began to thaw the ice in her bones. Yet, there was no heat, no intensity, no escalation. Jorah would give her anything she asked, but he wouldn’t take advantage of her vulnerable state. She nuzzled against him, opening only to anchor him to her for a long moment.

“Take me to bed?” she asked in a hushed whisper.

“To rest, aye.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Always and forever, Khaleesi.”

He moved deftly from behind her, and Dany lifted her arms to him as he stood. Easily, still so very easily, he picked her up in his arms, furs and all, and carried her back into her chambers. He settled her on the bed a pressed a kiss to her forehead, promising he would return quickly. As she snuggled into the furs, feeling warmer than she had all day, she could hear his low murmur and Missandei’s melodic reply. Both of them entered her bedchamber.

“Would you like me to read to you, Khaleesi?” Missandei asked gently as Jorah slid into the bed alongside her. The first time, her bear knight had been uncomfortable providing her with warmth and solace in her friend’s presence. But his unease lessened every time. Missandei was still very much a child in some ways, and Dany still very much her mother. Jorah had learned that the young girl cared very little for propriety when it came to her queen’s well-being, and so their routine was established. Dany nodded, feeling a smile stretch her lips, and settled back into Jorah’s embrace.

Dany fell asleep to the sound of Missandei reading about Aemon the Dragonknight and Jorah’s steadily beating heart.

*

When Dany awoke, she was alone in the bed. She might have panicked if she did not hear Jorah’s low burr from her solar. He was probably dealing with servants and making excuses for her absence. This did not happen very often, but Jorah always seemed to know how to handle things, how she would want them handled. It never ceased to surprise her. She sluggishly opened her eyes, climbing through the languid layers of sleep when his heavy footfall came near. She fluttered them completely open when he came to crouch at her bedside, a hand pushing back the stray strands of hair from her face.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked groggily, squirming to get comfortable. Jorah smiled.

“Not long enough, Khaleesi. How do you feel?”

She wriggled, testing, and winced at the sharp jab of pain, the feeling of wetness between her legs. The maester said she might continue to bleed for some time. Like every other time.

“Stiff,” she answered honestly, “Still hurts.” There was no point in trying to lie to him anyway, he’d suss out the truth eventually. She was expecting some lengthy lecture about not getting up and resting, following the maester’s orders. But he merely hummed as if he’d expected it.

“Missandei ordered you a bath, if you’re feeling up to it.”

A bath sounded heavenly, actually, and she told him so. She moved to get up, but he dragged her into the brace of his arms, carrying her instead. When she laughed and demanded to know if he was going to carry her around all day, the short answer was yes. He brought her into the dressing room where two manservants were lifting her tub off the warming fire.  Setting her down on the pile of cushions, Jorah went to assist them. They managed not to slosh too much water onto the floor, but in true, she didn’t mind. One of the men went to grab the bucket of cooling water to pour over the boiling hot bathwater, but Jorah stopped him and dismissed the pair of them.

Dany managed to get to her feet before he descended on her, but could only roll her eyes at his hovering. He helped her to disrobe, deftly and respectfully guiding her. He even unpinned and unbound her braids, threading his fingers through them to separate the tresses. She was sure that he would have carried her over to the bath, tried to lower her in, but then he would have burned his hands, so she stayed him and climbed in herself. The scorching hot water felt magnificent, close to perfect on her skin. She settled in and let her eyes flutter shut, vaguely registering that Jorah was fumbling around, glass clinking. He murmured her name and she opened her eyes to see him holding out several bottles of oils for her.

She pointed to the one in the middle, “That one.” Pentoshi roses, one of her absolute favorites. They said the only roses better to make oils were the winter roses of the North. She had yet to try it since they had such a limited crop, but she hoped Sansa would think to send her some the next time. If not, well, she wanted to visit her little nieces and nephew anyway. Jorah set the others aside, uncapped the bottle and poured several drops into the water. Dany moved her legs to stir it, letting the fragrance penetrate her senses, and overwhelm her.

Jorah stayed seated at her bath-side, handing her cloths and soaps. When the water was suitably cooled, he helped her to wash her hair. He soaped up her long, silvery tresses, working mostly at the roots and massaging her scalp. He’d become quite proficient at it, better than Irri even, though perhaps that was because his hands were stronger and larger. He rinsed her hair using the bowl, delicately shielding her eyes from the suds. Then he pulled it out of the tub, letting it hang over the side to dry and began combing it, beginning at the tips.

Jorah bathing her had started after her first miscarriage. She had been so distraught and too weak to function properly. Jorah stayed with her for every step of her recovery. Time passed, as did more babes, and he continued the regimen, though he dared not take such liberties any other time. Dany had started to wish he would.

“What are you thinking about, Khaleesi?” Jorah rumbled from behind her. She inhaled deeply, letting her hands and fingertips skate over the water’s surface, watching the ripples fan out.

“I’m—I am thinking about what people say about us.”

“Such as?”

“That you are my lover and the gods will not suffer a bastard to sit on the Iron Throne. Just like my father said of my mother.”

Jorah paused in his combing for a moment, but continued. Years before, he would have vowed to slaughter the man who spoke ill of her, who degraded her with his vile speech. Perhaps he thought the vow silently to himself to avoid upsetting her, she couldn’t possibly say.  

“Ironic.”

“Is it?”

“Two bastards sat on the Iron Throne before you, Khaleesi.”

“Both children. One murdered, one took his own life. That isn’t very reassuring.”

He stopped combing again, and Dany heard him set the brush aside. Then she felt his hands wringing her hair out, the excess water dripping onto the stone floor. A mess she knew the servants would not appreciate. They never did.

“Does it bother you, what they say?”

“Only in that it is a discredit to you.”

“You think your love would dishonor me?” 

Dany didn’t like this game they were playing, always dancing too close to the edges to pull away at the last moment. Jorah had always been too open with his feelings, too rash and too passionate to let them pass quietly. From the first, he had not shied away from it. Had not been ashamed to admit it to anyone. A man thrice her age and disgraced besides. No, he would not have been a suitable consort. But what if she had been free to decide? Free to make such a choice? She had often pondered Westerosi women having lovers. It seemed all too common a practice, and yet the lords and the politicians would condemn Jorah for what was in their imagination. Dany turned in her bath to face him, meeting the sharp blue of his eyes which already watched her.

“No,” she answered, her voice sounding small even to her own ears. “But I’d not have them pin the blame for my sins on you.”

He pursed his lips and sighed, “Your love for Khal Drogo was no sin, Khaleesi. The only sin was that witch’s hatred.”

“They raped her, burned her home to the ground…”

“Many have suffered much worse for much longer and still do not use their hate to punish. Look at Grey Worm. Look at Missandei. Brutalized as children, freed by you, and they love and care for you. They do not hate you because you did not come soon enough. They did not punish you for not restoring their previous life to them. They moved on, and did the best they could.” Dany leaned against the side of the tub, cradling her chin on the backs of her hands as he spoke.

“I know there is sense in what you say, and yet I know still that it is not the same.”

“It is not the same because you had hoped to save her, and she used that against you.”

“My foolish, gentle heart?”

“Your beautiful, gentle heart,” he corrected firmly.

Dany blinked slowly at him once, too tired to argue that point any longer. He’d watched her burn men alive, watched her sack cities and unleash her horde on innocents. If he could not decipher the difference after all these years, then it was no longer her burden. She looked down in the water, hoping that he hadn’t seen her vehement disapproval of his words. An argument would be senseless. She turned in the tub again, presenting her hair to him. The task was not yet finished.

“Tell me about Bear Island?” she asked instead. So he did. As he spoke, he braided, section by section. He told her about the forested mountains, about the coasts and the sea at sunset. He told her about the deep snows and the cool summers, about the bands of light that waved in the sky at night. He told her about the streams, the waterfalls, that when the sun hit the mossed over, gray stones of Mormont Keep just right, it nearly glowed. He told her about the gruff fishermen, gone at sea for turns at a time. He told her about their women, fierce, battle-hardened women who could fend off any raper or reaver with a spear and a battle cry. He told her about the Keep itself, about his father and the men who’d ruled the island before him.

“A young girl rules it now,” she said softly. “I met her once, you know, at Winterfell.”

“Well,” he answered, finishing the tail of her braid, “if she is anything like her mother, then she will do a much better job of it than I ever did.”

“Do you miss it still? You used to pray for home.”

“I used to be a fool, Khaleesi,” he retorted, slinging her heavy braid over her shoulder. “I thought of little else but being pardoned and restoring my honor, as I’m sure you remember.”

“And then what? You met me and suddenly all your priorities changed? Your loyalty was no longer to home and family, but my quest for the Iron Throne?” She’d meant for her words to come out more accusatory, a little more damning. But somehow she just sounded desperate, almost like she was begging him. For what, not even Dany could say.

“No, I watched you step from Drogo’s funeral pyre unburnt, and I knew that serving you was my way back to redemption. Not just a pardon, a signature and a seal to stop my execution, but true redemption.”

The water had begun to cool, and so Dany rose to her feet, using Jorah’s steady shoulder to step out of the tub. She saw the way his eyes darted and lingered, knew that his eyes feasted when his hands could not. Once out, he helped her into her dressing robe. She would have walked herself except that she became dizzy, the heat and the blood loss making her weak.  She stumbled. Once more, Jorah lifted her into his arms and carried her to her bed. From there, he helped her dress in a warm wool nightrail and settled her back into the furs, fluffing pillows and handing her the warmed tea the servants brought in for her. All done in silence.

“I could reinstate you as Lord of Bear Island,” Dany probed quietly as she dragged her finger along the rim of her earthen cup.

“No,” was his firm reply.

She lifted her eyes back to his, “And why not?”

“You know why,” he answered firmly, not so much as blinking. Gods, his intensity was too much sometimes. He saw too much, felt too much, said too much. That was his way, her fierce, unflinching bear.

“You could have your home. You could take a wife and have children, have your wealth and your title back,” she said feebly, not even believing her words as she said them. “It’s what you dreamed of.”

“Dreams change.”

She looked away from him, “You should not be so stubborn.” She set her tea aside, her stomach too upset to drink much of it, and it wasn’t the scalding hot temperature she preferred. “I have very little else to offer you.” There was a long silence between them, much too long. She knew he sat close to her on the bed, knew that his gaze was trained on her, knew that what she said wounded him. How could it not? How could _she_ not? She to try, didn’t she? Had to make an effort to save him from himself, even when she didn’t want it.

“You think I am here because I want something from you?” Jorah asked quietly, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear him, so quietly that she felt the vibrations of his voice in her chest rather than her ears. Dany clenched a hand into her fur.

“Everyone wants something from me.”  Dany bit her lip. “Is that not a consequence of being queen?”

“Maybe,” he sighed, drawing her attention finally. She met his steely, blue gaze, afraid of what he could put so boldly forth. Dany had no desire to send him away, but he might force her to it. Jorah reached out a hand, fingers just barely skimming the lines of her face, seemingly entranced as he followed their path. She felt the tears sting at her eyes, felt her throat tighten painfully. How could he be so…so _careful_ with her after _everything_? After all she had put him through? After everything he had endured to be at her side? How could he be so gentle and calm and patient, as if he were completely satisfied? He withdrew his hand, a flash of pain streaking across her face. What was it that he saw when he looked at her? A child? A woman? A queen? A god? That is often how he made her feel, as if she were some untouchable entity he worshipped from afar. What could a god do but love a so loyal a celebrant? But then there were times, much like when he brought her the fur, or when he moved as she was about to ask him to, or when he comprehended her silences, her looks, her wishes, when she thought it might be more.

“So what is it that you want from me, Jorah Mormont?”

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, and she swore she saw something akin to disappointment fly across his features. His eyes flicked over her dispassionately, and not for the first time she noted that he was not a particularly handsome man, yet his face soothed her. His features were a comfort, her eyes sought his, her anxiety settled with his smiles, his clenched jaw amused her.

“Your happiness,” he answered roughly. “Your smiles. Your laughter. That is all I have wanted for some time.”

Dany narrowed her eyes, drawing back just so, “Happiness because of you?” she asked, her voice sharpened by suspicion. Is that not what all men said? They all said it now. That they could provide for her, make her happy, keep her happiness, ensure her happiness, but what did men know of her happiness? How could they possibly begin to fathom what would make her happy? Jorah’s gaze sharpened as just swiftly.

“Happiness because of _anything_. No matter where it comes from or who provides it. I would secure you a new lover every day, if that is what you asked. I would do anything for you, Khaleesi, anything but leave.”

“Because you love me.”

“Aye,” he answered unhesitatingly.

“You ought to have learned better by now.”

“Old men learn slowly,” he bandied back wryly.

Dany moved forward, rolling to her knees. She took his hands in hers, reveling in his pliancy as she placed them on her waist, keeping her eyes on his as she did so. And she saw everything, the tic in his cheek, his pupils dilating, nostrils flaring. She brought her own hands to his broad shoulders, their height even, even though he sat while she kneeled. His hands were stiff against her, frozen and taut, to keep from actually holding her. Defense? Even now?

“But do you not think we have waited long enough, then?” she asked in a whisper, barely recognizing her own voice. The Dany of old was demanding and domineering, unhesitant and unrestrained. She had been uninhibited with Drogo, desperate with Irri, commanding with Daario. This demure, wilting thing was unknown to her, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. But the heat of his hands made her breath go shallow, pulled the air from her lungs. He was barely touching her and she was collapsing. His expression turned to awe, eyes narrowing in on her lips, to flit back to her eyes. She felt his hand clench her softness.

“A while longer, Khaleesi.” She arched a brow, tilting her head. And he shook his sharply, “You’ve yet to heal. I’d not hurt you for anything.” Feeling her brow furrow, Dany slid her hands along his shoulders to cup his neck, listing forward and closer to his heat.

“Do I have this right? The Mother of Dragons offers herself to you, and you would walk away? And what if it were a one-time offer?”

“All the greater my burden, Khaleesi.”

“Some would call you a fool.”

“Most. And probably.”

She laughed through her nose, shaking her head at him in utter disbelief, “Kiss me.”

“Is that command or offer?” he asked with no small amount of derision. Dany smiled, knowing her dimples peeked through and her eyes would flash. It was the coyness that worked wonders on Drogo, had transfixed Darrio. She did not need it with her gruff, old bear. She could move him as easily as a piece across a cyvasse board.

“Whichever would induce you.”

“You are not yourself—” he murmured, but his eyes drifted to her lips again, and his hands stayed heavy on her waist.

“Am I not?” she asked, putting more of her weight on him, pressing her forehead to his. “Who advises me when there seems no answer? Who protects me with his words and body no matter the threat? Who holds and comforts me when my grief is too great? Who kisses my brow and tells me I can withstand any storm? Who braids my hair and keeps me warm? The answer is no one but you. I am exhausted of being cold and alone. So if you _ever_ loved me—”

She didn’t have to continue because Jorah stopped her with his mouth. He was not gentle or probing or tentative. He took. He slanted his mouth over hers, prying her lips open, and ravaged her. His hands came up to cup the sides of her head, turning her this way and that, as he took her apart with tongue and teeth and lips. His mouth was hot and sweet and his beard scratched her, but she didn’t care. Dany threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself against his chest. His hands slid down along her neck, shoulders, arms, to her waist as he kissed her, then he smoothed them up along her spine, splayed wide. In a move she missed, Jorah had her flat on her back, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips which he plunged to greedily drink down.

He was so heavy on top of her, even though she could tell he was doing his best to keep from crushing her. But the contact felt so good, his skin was so hot, and no one had kissed her like this in such a long, long time. Already, she began spreading her legs to accommodate him, wanting friction instead of comfort. But he held himself back and a growl of frustration clawed at the back of her throat. Dany writhed up against him, throwing a leg over his hip, trying to force him. Still, he resisted, and this time she set the growl loose.

“Don’t fight me, Khaleesi,” he bit out around kisses. He trailed off to the side, kissing a path from her cheek to her neck, and along her collarbone to the other side. He went slowly, tonguing and nipping, soothing with his lips. Dany sunk her fingers into the thick of his hair, dragged her nails along his scalp, and moved her hips in synchronization with his tongue against her neck, hoping to push him over the edge. It almost worked.

Jorah ripped his mouth from her and rolled to the side, panting heavily. Dany followed and curled against him, kissing his cheek, neck, and ear. She managed to refrain from mounting him, knowing he would very likely throw her off anyway, and instead curled a hand around the other side of his face to give her better access to where she licked and kissed.

“You need to rest,” he gasped out, placing a firm hand on the forearm draped over his chest. Dany squirmed against him, threading her leg around his.

“I am,” she mumbled against his ear. He shuddered when she dipped to suck lightly at his pulse point. “You’re helping me to rest.”

“Khaleesi—”

“Don’t _Khaleesi_ me,” Dany snipped, rapping the side of his face sharply. Jorah scowled, but she smirked into his neck. “Do you not want me?”

“That’s not—” She nearly screamed in frustration, and rolled away from him. She sat up, glaring down at him while her heart pounded erratically.  Jorah didn’t let her get too far, however. His next move had her pinned to the bed, and if she weren’t so inordinately pleased by his insistent proximity, she would have tossed out some imperious reprimand for his presumption. But that was their old way, when in order to make him respect her as a queen first, she had to keep distance between them. She’d been forced to set firm boundaries, to block his future advances with her own barbed fence. There was no need for it anymore. Dany didn’t _want_ it anymore. He looked down at her so lovingly, with those big, blue-gray eyes, like he couldn’t quite believe it wasn’t a dream.

“Whether or not I want you,” he rasped out, sounding pained, “is _not_ a question.” He rolled his hips down, bringing his hardness against her. Dany lifted her leg against him, rubbing, drawing out a groan and a thick shudder. “ _Damn_ it, Daenerys,” he growled darkly. Her only response was to skate her fingers along his biceps, looking very much unrepentant. “You need to _heal_. Nothing you do is going to change my mind.”

“I would say the same to you,” she shot back stubbornly. Glaring, Jorah let out a shaky breath. Dany could see his brain working, the wheels spinning, the cogs tripping over one another, as he tried to come to some decision. Instead of speaking it aloud, he bent to kiss her soundly, soft but thick with heat. She felt drugged and languid. She wanted to sink into him and never come out. But all too soon, he was pulling away, stopping her chasing him with hard pecks.

“In a fortnight,” he murmured against her lips before pulling back up. “I will come to you in a fortnight if you still want me then.”

“I—” But Jorah cut her off with another thorough kiss, tearing all of her arguments to shreds. “Just don’t—” Her chest rumbled in protest. She threw her head back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. “Just stay with me, please?” He pressed kisses down her neck to her shoulder, nuzzling there. “Just stay and hold me, and kiss me when you feel like it.”

“That I can do,” he murmured, kissing her chin and bringing his arms around her. Jorah wrangled them into a more comfortable position, hauling her up toward the pillows again and draping her half over him like a blanket.

“I won’t change my mind,” Dany grumbled into his chest.

“Good.”

“I _won’t_.”

“ _Good_.”

She poked him in the belly, making him chuckle.

“Go to sleep, Khaleesi.”

*

Dany avoided him for the next fortnight. It was her only play, truly. If Jorah wanted to dictate the terms of their relationship, fine, she would let him. And he was going to suffer the consequences for it. She would put him out of his misery eventually, of course, but she didn’t take well to being treated like a child. Perhaps in many ways, she was still his cub. But in all the important ways, she was most certainly not. This was a prime example. So yes, she requested a different guard be with her. She dined alone with Missandei and sometimes Tyrion, she took her walks alone, saw the dragons alone, repeating to herself all the while that it was only a fortnight. One fortnight and she would put all of this foolishness to bed once and for all.

It was harder still that he was present for a good many occasions. She caught his looks in the Throne Room, in the Sept, during Small Council. She could not completely avoid the Lord Commander of her Queensguard, after all. He was confused, very obviously confused. After he left her to sleep for the evening, they had not spoken one word to each other. Jorah wouldn’t dare approach her on the subject, and Dany was content to let him wallow in his suffering until his bloody stupid time constraint was up. Tyrion shot them both, wary and concerned looks, but was kept silent by a severe-looking Missandei. The girl always seemed to know Dany’s business before she ever told her. Convenient in both a friend and scribe. Aegon didn’t seem to notice either way, though Grey Worm seemed perturbed by their coolness. He did not ask specifically if they had quarreled, though he did offer to duel the Andal on her behalf if she wished it. Dany laughingly persuaded him from this course, and promised that everything was absolutely fine.

“We had a little spat and he’s licking his wounds.” Her Master-at-Arms did not seem wholly convinced, but he remained silent on the subject, keeping his opinions to himself.

Though it passed much more slowly than she would have liked, the fortnight did, in fact, pass. The very evening his conditions permitted, she had food and flowers and dragonglass candles brought up to her chambers. She had a fire lit and extra furs laid out, wine decanting. She took a much longer bath and left her hair unbound. Dressing in a sheer violet gown from Dorne, she was reminded of her first wedding gown, and its silkiness. This dress was more substantial, but more provocative. Dornish women showed more skin, as the norm, but they also dressed to peek and conceal. The fabric moved with the body, giving a man glimpses of her shape only to cover it in the next second. Arianne Martell insisted her mother drove men to madness in such gowns.  When everything was suitably prepared and she felt fresh and awake, Dany sent for Jorah. She dismissed her handmaidens and the guards from her rooms, leaving only the two who stood watch in her corridor.

Jorah came as quickly and quietly as always, knocking and waiting for permission before entering. He looked stiff and uncertain, confused by her summons after such icy treatment from her. She wanted to laugh out loud in her delight, clap her hands and squeal like a child because she was going to win this game with him.

“You sent for me Kha—” Jorah broke off when he straightened from his bow, taking in the sight of the spread she had laid out for him. His gaze locked onto her attire, locked onto her breasts. At that, she could have rolled her eyes, but he was only a man after all. “What’s all this?”

She sashayed forward, still just out of his reach and sipped on her wine. “It has been a fortnight.” She took another sip and licked the drops from her lips. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

With that he was striding forward furiously, so that she hardly had time to toss her glass aside, not caring if it shattered or made a mess. They met halfway, colliding together, and he caught her in his arms as she jumped to embrace him. Their lips crashed together painfully, roughly bruising each other. Dany tightened her legs around his waist, pushing her hips into him and he groaned beautifully for her.

“And here I thought I was going to have to seduce you,” she japed breathlessly into his mouth. He snagged her lips, tugging and sucking her bottom lip between his. He walked them cautiously over to her bed.

“Not likely,” he growled back gruffly before nipping at the line in her throat. “Did that years ago.”

Dany gasped out his name, giggling when he tossed her onto the bed, but incapable of saying anything else when he shoved his face between her thighs.

**Author's Note:**

> Below is ranting, feel free to skip.
> 
> So I know I always leave these explanatory notes before and after these fics, but I just feel like discussions are necessary 90% of the time.  
> 1) I’m a Dany x Jorah shipper. I’d have preferred Drogo to live because I loved them, but he died, so that leaves us with Jorah.  
> 2) This does not mean I want her to marry Jorah. In fact, I’d prefer if she didn’t marry anyone. In the show, I think it ought to be Tyrion, for political reasons, and then neither one has to worry about having children. In the books, I think it should be Aegon. Just because. Politics.  
> 3) “But Katie, you think Petyr x Sansa is terrible, why would you ship Dany x Jorah?”  
> Okay, listen. Jorah Mormont does not equal Petri Dish Littlefinger. The former f-ed up his life and spent the rest of the time trying to make up for it. The latter constantly manipulates and screws people over because he’s an ambitious little twat. I hate that guy.  
> 4) “Katie, we were talking about the age difference.”  
> Well aware, thank you. I prefer show!Jorah to book!Jorah because the latter was a little intense and creepy about it. The age difference thing bothers me personally because it reads to me like grooming your perfect partner. Gross. However, I think if enough time passed and Dany has all these experiences and shapes herself, then her choosing Jorah in the end (or however it conceivably happens) would be acceptable. Jorah is perfectly willing to let her do that; see: every episode of GoT ever. Littlefinger has no intention of letting Sansa be anything other than his puppet-partner. If she’s not doing things his way, then she’s “wrong.” Dislike. No. Uh-uh. Not to mention, there’s a huge power disparity between both couples. Dany has all the power over Jorah, she’s queen, she banishes him like every other week, and she can have him killed, no questions asked. Petyr has all the power over Sansa; he’s supposedly protecting her, shielding her identity, using her to gain the seats and thrones and power. If he told someone who she was, she would probably die. Sansa NEEDS Petyr’s good will because she doesn’t have anyone (yet). It’s an important distinction to my mind.


End file.
